Today in the bank parking lot.

Today in the parking lot next to my bank branch in Madison, Wisconsin, a woman surprised your humble servant here. We were the only two persons in the lot; both of us had just left the bank branch; she was a few steps ahead of this writer.

As we exited into the fabulous sunny fall weather and stunning display of color in the leaves of the trees around the parking lot, she said, "Wouldn't it be great if we could put some of this into a bottle for later?" This writer agreed; in a few seconds the woman revealed what was really on her mind.

It was her son, a combat Marine in Afghanistan. The woman had come to the bank to visit with another mother who has a son in combat in Afghanistan also. The two in effect were a support group for each other. Sadly, the other woman was not there, but I was.

This mother shared her anguish with this writer for the next thirty minutes. For thirty nonstop minutes she shared her fears, hopes, pain with this writer. It brought home good and hard the true costs of war for those who must send family members to the front.

Of course the Chicken Hawks who send them do not go to war. Their kids do not go to war. They send the son of this mother - and others like her - instead. Nobody has the moral right to ask, tell another person to do what he or she has not done, will not do themselves, or have their family members do.

As she wound down, this writer asked, "What is your son's name." "Andrew, "she said. Your humble servant here replied, "I shall pray for Andrew. I shall pray for God's will."

This calmed her, but it did not calm this writer. He left the parking lot with a mixture of sadness and anger because of this mother's pain - and the pain of all of the other mothers in our great country because their children are in "harm's way" because some banker, political hack, military-industrial complex gangster, or oil company stooge sent them there to make money. The true cost of the oil wars in the Middle East are not trillions of dollars. It is the anguish of a mother in a bank parking lots for her son doing his duty in a land far away because the gangsters in Washington and vampires on Wall Street have sent him there.

America is better than this.